Hair raisers and what nots

A cumbersome requirement for membership in civilized society is having the head snipped at regularly and fitting into a decent set of clothes. It comes as no surprise that I have been living on the very edge of these requirements not by volition but because of nothing less than cosmic conspiracy. Call me paranoid but I do believe the government might have a hand in it as well. Listen carefully to the evidence at hand and feel free to wriggle those brows when called for.

Born in the summery month of March, my head was bestowed with what might be kindly termed a generous and somewhat boisterous set of curls. They seemed to thrive and flourish on madras curries and everything typically designed to curb populations by the millions. Even regular immersions in pools of highly chlorinated water did not discourage the stringers to fall out. So now after much threatening and cajoling I have left behind me a trail of broken shears and weeping hairstylists, for no matter what they claimed their fingers never could disentangle from the mess swiftly enough.

But there was just one man ‘Pete’ we shall call him who bewitched my mop into submission and his clippers breathed a new life into my social standing. No more did people huddle in groups and discuss the man-eaters I held over my forehead and no more was a flick of my lock any threat to my neighbors. But alas all was not well in my Keratin kingdom. While dancing my way to my fortnightly visit to Pete I was informed that he had left to Dubai. It seemed too much of a coincidence that my tamer of locks would require a break so soon after discovering me in his office.

Teenagers take heartbreak very badly and I was no exception. So I fled from the scene and threw myself under another’s scissors. Weepy and hiccoughy I stammered ‘Do what you want’ and the startled barber started clipping. Perhaps he was suffering from Parkinson’s or I had been overly conclusive in my weeping but by the end of my appointment my scalp was making appearances where it should not have. And to pour fat into the fire the ailing fiend charged me a whole month’s worth of pocket money. Trudging home I thought up innovative stories to relate to sympathetic enquirers about why my hair looked as it did.

Nobody seemed to believe that chance encounters with bird droppings caused inconsistent hair fall. I tried the ‘my hairdresser had a stroke’ story but I didn’t want to be termed the cause of an honest man’s end. So over the years I lived a life of a hair fugitive. Never visiting a parlor twice and always paying by cash. These visits have resulted in various styles that can be struck off the suitable list. One brave lady tried the electric blonde look refusing to take into consideration the black haired dumpling of a customer that I was. In these instances caps and bandanas came in very handy. After all these are sensitive times and one doesn’t want to find themselves suddenly flogged at by nervous pedestrians.

Slowly I have learnt to live around my conspicuous hair. I grew a decent sized brain and let people think that I spent no time on frivolous acts like combing and hairstyling. I secured a paired of glasses and claimed impaired vision after hours of twisting the so called brain and burning the midnight lamp. And its amazing how perceptive onlookers are to a wild haired bespectacled individual walking on congested streets with their nose stuck in a book. They immediately part ways or yip plaintively when my foot meets theirs rather abruptly. The next time I shall explain the trials and tribulations of finding the right clothes to lessen the number of screams from those who can see.